A Bad Day
by Jack of All Suits
Summary: A day in the life of Sherlock Holmes isn't always roses and success. Even famous detectives have those days when things go from bad to worse to awful.


**When real life throws sucker punches, the best way to respond is by raising your fist in rebellion against the harshness of reality and writing out and out fluffy humor about a character you respect and salute having a worse day than you. Sorry, Holmes!**

**Disclaimer: Not mine. Ever. Unfortunately.**

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Even among the considerably famous and significant figures of the world, there are those very few days in one's life which begin and end on a note so sour, there seems very little reason to have risen at all in the morning. Though Europe-wide glory has a hand in making such occasions few and far between, it would be a grievous error to believe they cannot or do not crop up.

Sherlock Holmes, of course, was no exception.

I entered on a dismal and foggy morning to see him sitting at the table with an expression that rang of nothing less than extreme vexation. Having spent some few years in his company, I thought it wise to remain silent, and sidled as quietly as I could into my chair and started in on the charming breakfast Mrs. Hudson had laid out for us. I endeavored to leave him to his thoughts, mindful as ever that he was clamping his teeth on his cherry-wood pipe; his temper, it would seem, had already been stirred.

"Murder, Watson." He announced in a tense and somewhat quieter tone than I would have accepted. "In Trafalgar Square last night." He tossed a telegram at me, which, but for my lucky reflexes, might have landed in my teacup. "A simple matter, of course, though it may have so—_hic_!" I looked up in alarm to see his cheeks taking on a new shade of pink.

"What's that, Holmes?" I asked, and he shook his head firmly. "Are you feeling all right?"

"Fine, Watson. As I said, it may have some interesting facets which could prove worthwhile if—_hic_!" His face twisted into a gruesome expression of dismay and he clenched his pipe ever tighter between his teeth. "_If_," He began stubbornly anew. "the matter is not settled by this eve—_hic!_—ning."

Perhaps it is my own fault that I found myself so enraptured by his display, for I had occasionally been of the misplaced belief that my good friend and companion was something of a singularity among human beings. He seemed, at times, more machine than man, and machines most certainly did not suffer such common afflictions as _hiccups_. "Have you tried drinking some water?" I proposed as naturally as I could, though my lips did tremble terribly in an effort to remain unaffected.

"_Drinking! _Good heavens, I believe our admirable Mrs. Hudson—_hic!_—has almost drowned me in tea this morning!" Holmes exclaimed, and to my great amusement he released a hiccup which left him gasping on tobacco smoke. "As a—_hic!_—doctor, Watson, have you a more re—_hic!_—liable cure?"

"None besides fanciful wives' tales, I'm afraid. They tend to pass on their own."

"Not so. A client of—_hic!_—mine claimed to have them for—_hic!_—three years!"

"Well, there are always the unusual cases, Holmes, but I'm certain you'll recover quite nicely in time." I opened the telegram Inspector Lestrade had been good enough to send. "I _have_ heard that distraction can do marvels to help chase hiccups away. Perhaps looking into this might clear them up."

Holmes appeared not to give much credit to my opinion, for he looked away pointedly and sighed. "I cannot go running about—_hic!_—London like this." He announced drearily. "I sound like an abso—_hic!_—lute fool! _Hic_!" A snarl cut through the morning air at his own deficiency, and again I struggled to remain stone-faced.

"Better to be out and about than sulking in here."

"I am _not_—_hic!_—sulking!" He grabbed the telegram from me impatiently. "_'Murder in Trafalgar Square fountain, would much—hic! — appreciate your assistance'_. Fah! Vague as—_hic! _Oh _Watson_!" I raised my eyebrows at his imploring tone. "There must be—_hic_!—_something_ modern medicine has produced to cure these—_hic!—_incorrigible things!"

I could only shrug. "There are dozens of _supposed_ cures, Holmes. From holding your breath, to counting to ten and hopping on one foot." He appeared to be unfavorable to either suggestion. "There _is_ an interesting one I have seen in which someone holds your ears while you…"

"Kind of you, Wat—_hic!—_son, but I graciously decline." Holmes interrupted, casting me uneasy glances as though I might at any moment seize him by the ears. His eyes roved back to the telegram and he sniffed derisively. "I sup—_hic!_—pose there may be some points of interest, though my—_hic!_—instincts tell me it will end poorly."

"Of course, shall I hail a cab?"

"_Watson_! You are _snickering_." His glower of discontent did little to help, accompanied by his continued outbursts. "To think you—_hic!_—would find humor in my _su—hic!—ffering!_"

"Now Holmes really. Hiccups hardly qualify as suffering."

"I beg to disa—_hic!_—gree. _Mrs. Hudson!_" He paced as far as the door, only to give a tremendous shout of surprise and pain as it opened on its own. To the sound of tinkling china I turned, and watched in astonishment as Holmes leapt from foot to foot, drenched in hot tea.

"Oh _Mr. Holmes!_" Mrs. Hudson flew into the room in a state of shock, patting him on the shoulder, harrying him about, and generally doing very little to ease his aggravation. "Sir, I hadn't the foggiest clue you were so near the door! Oh, I am so _dreadfully_ sorry!" She clapped a hand to her lips as he staggered, cursing fluently in what I believe to be French, into his bedroom. "I thought after he drank most of the tea, sir, that you might need some more. Oh, what a fine mess I've made!"

It fell on me to quell her nerves, and so I waved a hand nonchalantly and bent to gather the broken fragments of what had once been her second-favorite teapot. "Not at all, Mrs. Hudson, really." I lowered my voice to a confidential murmur then. "He has had a rather unpleasant morning."

"Don't I know it, sir." She replied, and we exchanged a look of exasperation that could only be shared by those who had tolerated one of Holmes's black moods. "He was properly up-in-arms, I can assure you, the moment he started with the…" She mimed a hiccup and I nodded understandably. "While I tidy this up, doctor, perhaps you would do best to go fetch a cab." Mrs. Hudson pointed out kindly.

When I returned with a hansom waiting at the door, Holmes was shrugging off more apologies from our estimable landlady. "I've a cab waiting outside, Holmes." I announced, sparing him any further hysterics. "Are you quite all right, old chap?"

"As I have just told _dear _Mrs. Hudson, I am _quite _fine." He said tersely, yet as he slung on his overcoat and descended the stairs, my practiced eye caught the faintest hint of a limp.

When we were well on our way in the cab, I glanced at him meaningfully. "_Are _you all right?"

"Yes, _Doctor_, just some inconsequential blisters."

"On your legs, I suppose?"

"Ah…" His glance downward spoke volumes, and I could not contain a grimace of supportive sympathy. "As I said… of little consequence." He insisted valiantly.

"Well, at least it startled the hiccups out of you!"

"For now." His mood was so dour that we did not speak for the remainder of our journey, and even upon entering Trafalgar Square he paid any and all attention to the scene of the mysterious murder. The fountain in question had been closed off to the public, though we had no exceptional difficulty in slipping through the security detail. He threw one all-seeing glance over the area and let out a cry of despair that jarred me from my own thoughts.

"You see, Watson? This day goes from bad, to worse, to dreadful!" He exclaimed miserably.

"Holmes, I cannot say I follow you." I replied sheepishly as Lestrade separated from a pack of constables to approach us.

"Even from six feet away I can plainly see that no murder has been committed! The man was drunk and tumbled into the water. To the untrained eye, the marks surrounding would look as though a struggle between two men took place, when it was but one fellow against himself. Being inebriated and clearly confused, he fought to extradite himself from the fountain and failed, eventually drowning in a modest pool of water and leaving hints for us to see of his monumental struggle against the effects of his vice."

"And the blood, sir? I suppose you can reason _that _away as well?" the Inspector had arrived in due time to listen to Holmes's reasoning, and questioned him with a none-too-amused glare.

"Pshaw, you can see blood over here as well, Inspector Lestrade." Holmes knelt abruptly and waved at the ground beneath us. "Even through the mess your men have made; observe." He produced his glass from his inner pocket with a flourish, and upon closer observation, there were indeed several coppery smudges plainly visible underfoot. "Your supposed victim was wounded before he ever arrived here. Given the amount of blood, I could very easily believe that you thought his injuries were caused at the time of his death as opposed to beforehand, as this indicates."

He stood up with a disgruntled look upon his face. "A shame; this had the makings to be a pretty little problem, didn't it Watson? Ah, but _c'est la vie_! I'm sure, Inspector, you will reach my conclusions now on your own."

"Well, at least come inspect the edge of the fountain, Mr. Holmes." Lestrade grumbled. "Your theories and speculations are perfectly fine, but Scotland Yard operates on facts."

"Of course, of course." Holmes approached the water's edge at a fast pace, clearly hasty to end the interview. As he moved, a passing constable threw out his leg.

To my infinite shock and amazement, the feet of my good friend became entangled in the sudden intruder to his path, and with an almighty _howl_ of shock, Sherlock Holmes staggered onto the edge of the fountain and _over _it in a tremendous volley of water. Stunned as we all were by this sudden display of inelegance, Holmes floundered about in the fountain for several seconds before emerging, sopping wet.

Perhaps in defeat, or perhaps in horror, he made no move to remove himself from the water. Instead he sat, cross-legged in the midst of it with his once-neat, black hair falling soaked and bedraggled around his eyes, and his suit hanging off his frame like a potato sack. His top hat, in a show of remarkable audacity, floated by on an unseen current, and for one moment I saw his lips tremble and feared he may very well weep at the vein his day had continued in.

Instead, he brought his hands to his eyes in utter defeat and released the loudest hiccup I have ever heard a man utter.


End file.
